


The Thirteenth Prince original version

by NineOfSpades



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Horror, Complete, Kinda, M/M, not really - Freeform, once again, sherlock's a weirdo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 12:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14402130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineOfSpades/pseuds/NineOfSpades
Summary: The original version of "The Thirteenth Prince," before I decided to try and edit it.Dedicated to NovaNara, Ghraphite, WhizzerBrown, and alexandwrite.





	The Thirteenth Prince original version

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Thirteenth Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10320875) by [NineOfSpades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineOfSpades/pseuds/NineOfSpades). 



> So I lost steam and I don't think the edited version will ever make its way to this site - sorry :(. But obviously it wouldn't be fair not to put the whole thing up given it was already written. So here's the draft. 
> 
> Dedicated to NovaNara, Ghraphite, WhizzerBrown, and alexandwrite.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked sorcerer who lived in a tall black castle.  The kingdoms around him lived in fear. 

Every year, the sorcerer would demand that a prince or princess be sent to stay with him for twelve months.  Or longer, if the poor soul wished. 

The poor soul never wished.  

At the end of the year the villagers living nearest the black castle would gather around to watch as the prince or princess ran out of the black double-doors, fleeing as if wild dogs were nipping at their heels.  The kinder villagers waited with blankets and mugs of hot cocoa.  The less kind waited with dozens of questions.  "What was it like?"  "Did you catch a glimpse of his spellbooks?"  "What was he like?"  "What did he _do_ to you?"

The answers were fairly constant.  The stay began comfortably - it was a large castle, after all.  Soft beds with down mattresses and plump pillows, delicious food that appeared mysteriously on the dining table every morning, strains of lovely music in the air every now and again. 

Then, one day, the sorcerer would appear.  Tall, slender, and clad all in black, his cape billowed behind him like the wings of a bat, and his collars were high enough to reach his jawline.  His skin was sallow, unnaturally dark.  And, as if that wasn't enough, he wore a cap with _two_ brims.  The terrified royal would whisper that it was a sign of the sorcerer's two-faced, changeling personality - some even guessed that the man had literally two faces, the better to watch them all with, or perhaps because of an experiment gone wrong. 

The sorcerer's eyes were two chips of obsidian, cold and merciless, and they saw straight into the heart of any man or woman.  Any soul who stood before him could only watch helplessly as he read their deepest, darkest secrets off their faces and smiled with a knowing that was not of this earth. 

The food would appear more irregularly then.  Occasionally, the royal, wandering the castle, would find body parts, still dripping with blood, in places where they shattered the illusion of normalcy - thumbs on the windowsills of sitting rooms, livers in the stables, toes in the kitchen, and once, one horrified princess reported, a human heart in the unlit fireplace.   The music turned sour and discordant, sometimes sounding in the dead of night, or at the crack of dawn.  

Some days, the sorcerer would drag his hapless victim with him through the streets of their kingdom, casting a spell over them that would ensure they would not be seen.  He would then point out people and describe them, minute details of their life down to what they had for breakfast. 

“I don’t know how he knew,” they would cry, “but he _knew_!” 

…

In the Year of the Purple Bear, the five neighboring kingdoms had finally exhausted their heirs.  All twelve of the princes and princesses who were past the age of adulthood had stayed with the sorcerer for at least one year, and none were willing to ever set foot in that godforsaken castle again.  It was the turn of Queen Catherine XVII to send one of his children to the sorcerer, and she could not for the life of her persuade any of her children to return. 

Well.  Any of her legitimate children. 

"What about..."-- Michelle hesitated before whispering the word, a name that caused her mother anger every time she heard it -- "... _John_?" 

Catherine’s back stiffened, and Michelle flinched, but the blow never came.  

"Yes," said the Queen, "he may still count as a prince."  

…

“Rise,” said the Queen.  John got uncomfortably to his feet. 

“What did you need me for?” 

“ _Do_ I need you?” 

“We haven’t spoken since you disinherited me for wanting to become a physician.”  His face twisted bitterly.  “Am I suddenly useful again?” 

A pause, then the penny dropped. 

“Of course.  The Sorcerer.” 

“Clever boy.” 

John clenched his jaw.  “Who says I’d be willing to do this for you?  After all, you’ve refused-” 

“Your nurses are indispensable to you.  I can have them arrested.”  She didn’t look away from her son’s helpless glare.  “On the other hand, I can ensure your office no longer struggles financially.”  She waved a hand. 

Two servants stepped out from the curtained area behind a throne, carrying between them a large wooden chest.  They set it down carefully and made a big show of opening it. 

Inside, gold and jewels glittered, easily worth a fourth part of a kingdom. 

“You’d be allowed to bring as much as you could carry on your person,” the Queen finished. 

John scowled.  “Fine.” 

…

The next morning, John was carefully dressed in silk and satin.  The royal hairdressers brushed and trimmed his hair as best they could, cut short as it was for practicality; the beauticians primped and powdered his face.  The tailors wept at his increased weight – seven and a half pounds, they cried, now all their measurements were a fourth of an inch off – and did the best they could with the clothes they’d made.  The jewelers brought their finest wares, and King James himself chose stones that would lend the most authenticity. 

It was all a bit much, John thought.  He felt like he was going off to get married, not to live with a supposedly evil sorcerer for a year. 

The Royal Guard escorted him to the black gates, behind which lay the black double-doors, with as much fanfare as if they had been escorting a legitimate prince to a foreign country.  The gates slowly opened, with no signs of outside assistance, and the doors soon followed. 

The guards backed away slowly.  John rode through the gates, dismounted, and walked through the doors alone. 

Most princes at this stage would stable their horse, then sneak around in search of a bedchamber, desperately hoping the sorcerer would ignore them. 

John wasn’t most princes. 

“Hello?”  He called, stepping around a corner into what appeared to be an indoor garden that had, if you will pardon the pun, gone to seed.  There were drooping, blackened stems everywhere, dead leaves littering the ground.  Mostly poisonous plants, he noted, with detached interest. 

John left the room, went down a long hallway, turned another corner, and thought he heard a faint noise.  A light wooden door opened onto a spiral staircase, some ambient light filtering out from below.  He went downstairs and found himself in some rather dismal cellars, torches flickering in their sconces.  A faint thudding noise grew louder.  Following the noise, John eventually found himself in what could only be the dungeons.  A table covered with a bloodstained white cloth was at the far end, a man bending over a cadaver with an open chest wound. 

John paused, fascinated, wondering if he should introduce himself, but before he could decide, the man straightened up and turned around. 

He looked like an ordinary man without the black collared cape, a bit tall and thin, perhaps; darker-skinned, a foreigner, but not a Moor.  His cheekbones were stark in the torchlight, his hair having the distinct shape of hair that has been flattened under a cap for too long.  The only unusual thing about him was his eyes – small, black, intelligent eyes, flickering over John in a way that made him feel small, as if under the scrutiny of a crowd of a thousand, like he was waiting to perform at his father’s tournaments again.  He straightened his back, for what it was worth, and planted his feet apart, meeting those analytical eyes squarely. 

Without looking away, the sorcerer spoke: 

“You are not a prince.” 

“Because I came down here alone?”  John cocked his head, smiling amicably. 

The sorcerer raised his hands to his face, then quickly dropped them, remembering the bloodstains.  “Your clothes are of a style three years out of fashion.  Your jewelry is flawless, but when your hand shifted just now, the skin beneath your rings was tan.  You aren’t accustomed to wearing such riches; the way you hold yourself – it’s unnatural for you; uncomfortable.  There’s a tear on your sleeve from where it dragged against something sharp – you weren’t careful with it; that sort of care takes decades of wearing the right clothes.  But you’ve managed to avoid getting a speck of dust on your doublet… Who are you _really_?” 

A small tendril of trepidation snaked its way into John’s stomach, but not nearly as much as he should have felt.  Bloodstains aside, it was difficult to be afraid of the man when he looked so _confused._  

“I was born a prince,” John said easily.  “I was disinherited some time ago.  Mother was a bit… old-fashioned.” 

The sorcerer’s discerning glance passed over John from head to toe.  He nodded slowly.  “I suppose that is… acceptable,” he said.  "When did you get back from the War on Infidels?" 

“Eight years ago,” said John.  “Before I was disinherited.” 

“Honors?  Ah, yes.  Medal of Valor.” 

“Quite right.”  John tried not to sound too impressed.  He was a man of science, and it wouldn’t do for him to look like a gape-mouthed yokel.  “How did you know that?” 

The sorcerer simply smiled enigmatically.  “Can I interest you in supper?” 

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about this.”  He walked over to the cadaver.  “Blunt trauma, I presume?  A large, heavy object, propelled from some distance…” He peered at it more closely.  “But the cause of death appears to be…”

“Asphyxiation,” the sorcerer interrupted.  “The man was hanged for stealing a side of beef.  I picked him up earlier today to experiment on.” 

“Ah.  That’s illegal, isn’t it?  Damaging human bodies goes against the word of God and whatnot.” 

The sorcerer scowled.  “The laws of this land are made by idiots who oppose progress,” said he.  “I’d never learn anything if I followed the letter of the law.” 

John nodded.  “Fair enough.” 

The sorcerer looked astonished.  “You don’t… mind?” 

“Mind?  Not at all.  Anything in the name of scientific progress.” 

The eyes, sharp as a sword tip, focused on him again.  “You’re a medical man, aren’t you?” 

“Private physician.  I run a place a few miles away.” 

“That would explain the lack of any running or screaming.  Been practicing long?” 

“Seven years.” 

The gaze turned admiring.  “You’ve done it too, then, haven’t you?  Taken someone’s body for research?” 

“Someone’s _dead_ body.  It’s-”

“Who do you go to?  Don’t play dumb; I know you have a provider.” 

John sighed.  It was said that the sorcerer could tell when one was lying.  “Wiggin.” 

“Stoop-shouldered, looks like a heap of rags?” 

“The same.” 

“He’s overcharging you,” the sorcerer said matter-of-factly.  “Tell him I’ll have words with him if he doesn’t give you my rates.” 

John couldn’t help but grin.  For all that everyone claimed the sorcerer was wicked, said wicked sorcerer had helped his practice more than anyone in his family ever had. 

…

Supper was laid out by the time they came upstairs, an elderly lady removing dishes one by one from the table. 

“You’ve kept your guest downstairs for so long,” the lady said reproachfully, “the food’s already cold.” 

“Sorry,” said John.  “I didn’t realize- the others said the food appeared magically; I didn’t think I’d keep anyone waiting.” 

The lady tutted.  “Their mothers have a lot to answer for,” she said.  “I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way.” 

“Oh,” said the sorcerer.  “This is… Harry, Michelle, and then the chart wouldn’t have shown your name after eight years ago, so something from earlier… Jack?” 

“John.” 

“Right.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. 

“Mrs. Hudson was my father’s housekeeper, and then my brother’s,” the sorcerer explained.  “I inherited her along with the estate when they passed.” 

“Condolences.” 

The sorcerer shook his head.  “It was a long time ago.”  They sat down at the same end of the table, the sorcerer at the head, John at his right hand.  Mrs. Hudson hesitated before resignedly allowing them to help themselves to the cold food.  “Plague,” he elaborated. 

“The same Plague that you saved the five kingdoms from?” said John, interested.  “The Seaworthy Plague?” 

The sorcerer scowled.  “I haven’t _saved_ the kingdoms yet,” he said, grudging.  “It’s still out there.  Once I’ve eradicated it entirely I’ll be able to rest on my laurels.  In the meantime-”

“In the meantime,” interrupted John, “you’ll continue dropping heavy things on corpses to see how long it takes for their ribs to crack.” 

The sorcerer smiled.  “Precisely.” 

…

The next few weeks were pleasant.  John amused himself exploring the castle and strolling through the grounds, which seemed to be an equal mix of lovely gardens and terrifying swamps.  Some days, he’d find the sorcerer, or vice versa, and John would watch as the sorcerer performed his experiments.  Some nights, he’d hear unearthly music carrying through the halls, and be lulled to sleep. 

Once, the sorcerer asked John’s assistance with an unusual experiment. 

 “I’ll have to lay these fingers out to dry,” he said.  “Would you mind leaving them on an upstairs windowsill for me?” 

John took the fingers.  “Is this why all the others saw body parts lying around everywhere?  Your experiments?” 

“For the first few years,” the sorcerer admitted.  “After that… well.  It was rather funny.” 

John choked back a laugh.  “It’s not nice,” he admonished.  “Ordinary people are a bit unsettled by dismembered body parts.” 

“Ordinary people are boring.”  The sorcerer turned back to the fingerless hands on his table.  

…

Soon, John ran into Mrs. Hudson again at the dining table, fretting over the uneaten dishes. 

“He’s been in his lab for days,” she said disapprovingly.  “He’ll work himself to death at this rate.” 

“I’ll get him,” John promised, and went downstairs, to where the sorcerer was whipping a corpse. 

“Oh,” said the sorcerer.  “It’s you.”  He carefully lay down the whip.  “Mrs. Hudson must have been truly desperate to recruit you in her futile endeavor.”  But he followed John upstairs, so John supposed it wasn’t entirely futile.

They talked about the Plague again.  John quickly realized that the sorcerer was just as desperately eager to discuss it as he was to avoid the subject. 

“Why ‘Seaworthy’?” 

“It was a bit of a joke when I first coined it,” the sorcerer explained.  “The Plague originated in my homeland, across the sea.  I was immune.  My biological parents passed away when I was fourteen, but not before sending me on a ship with a few others.  One of them-” he blinked, throat working.  “One of them brought it with her unknowingly.  She died.  The disease spread.  The man who took me in, Lord Holmes – he- he treated me as a son.  His other son Mycroft taught me how to make deductions.  We’d make a game out of it, figuring out who passerby were and where they were going.”  He paused again.  “I tried my hardest to save them.  I didn’t realize how strong it was.” 

“Is that why you worked so hard to cure everyone who had it?” 

The sorcerer looked surprisingly grave.  “if I could beat the Plague, if I could free society of it, I’d feel that my life had reached its summit, and be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life.  But never have I been so hard-pressed by an opponent.” The sorcerer’s expression grew dark.  “The root of this Plague eludes my best efforts.” 

“Have you any thoughts?” 

“The Seaworthy Plague started from the royal families last time.  I suspected a food was the carrier, something the poor wouldn’t get to eat – venison, pork, a rare spice – or possibly wine or a sweetmeat, and then it would have spread to the servants…”  He pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.  “…maybe those who finished the leftovers got it, or the cooking staff who tasted it.  But then how would it have spread outside the walls of the castle?  Surely no one _ate_ the servants.  _Think!_ ”  He got up and paced back and forth. 

“That’s _enough,_ Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chided.  “Do sit down and finish your dinner.  You’ve been working long enough.” 

“Sorry,” John said meekly. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, then John asked,

“Why princes and princesses?  I mean, why make royal descendants stay with you?  Not that I’m complaining, but aren’t they usually a pain to deal with?” 

The sorcerer raised an eyebrow.  “It’s because I want to remind the monarchs of my tyrannical grip on what they hold dear,” he deadpanned. 

“Sherlock!”  Mrs. Hudson scolded. 

“S’that your name?” 

The sorcerer scowled.  

“I didn’t realize you had a name,” John added.  “I mean, I suppose in hindsight that was a bit silly of me, but…”

“No, it’s understandable,” said the sorcerer.  “Wicked sorcerers don’t usually have things as mundane as names.” 

“You’re not wicked,” said John quietly. 

“I hold kingdoms hostage with the threat of the most dangerous plague known to man.  Hardly a sign of goodness.” 

“You hold the Plague in check,” John corrected, “and require only companionship for reimbursement.  Personally, I’d ask for payment.” 

The sorcerer snorted.  “Yes, and tearing families apart and forcing royal children to stay with me against their will is better.” 

“First off, we’re hardly children, and secondly, didn’t you say the Plague originated with a royal family?  That’s why you wanted princes, isn’t it?  To make sure we didn’t start another wave of the Plague?” 

He didn’t deny it this time.  “These kingdoms are ridiculous,” he said through a mouthful of potatoes.  “Your royalty refuses to _bathe_ unless I threaten them.  Bathing _prevents_ illness; it doesn’t spread it.”  He narrowed his eyes at John in sudden suspicion.  “You do bathe, don’t you?” 

“I- of course I bloody well _bathe_!  I’m a physician!” 

“Medicine is unbelievably backwards here,” the sorcerer complained.  “Your country hasn’t even invented anesthetics.” 

“Invented what?” 

“Painkillers.” 

John frowned.  “Why would a doctor want to kill pain?  Pain is the only way we can figure out what’s going on with a patient.” 

“Not _permanently,_ ” the sorcerer said impatiently.  “It stops a patient’s pain for around two hours, and then you can operate on them.  It’s better than hiring clods to hold them down while they scream their heads off when you cut them open.” 

John blinked.  “Huh.  That sounds incredibly useful.  How is it made?” 

“I’m attempting to rediscover a variant of it at the moment.  I don’t yet have a way of importing the ingredients, but perhaps there are substitutes endemic to this region.”  The sorcerer leaned forward, food forgotten.  “They’re in the form of a combination of herbs and roots that the patient chews for its juices – the rest of it is spat out, but-”

“SHERLOCK!’  The mild-mannered housekeeper slammed her hands on the table, looking so fearsome that Sherlock started.  “Eat,” she commanded, and he obeyed immediately. 

…

One night, John heard the discordant sounds his predecessors had warned him about.  The screeching woke him before first light, and for a moment, he remembered raised scimitars gouging streaks into his armor.  The thought prevented him from going back to sleep.  He got up. 

Outside, in the hallway, a bizarre sight greeted him.  The sorcerer was leaping about in the corridor, turning in circles, a fiddle under his chin as he sawed away at it as if the instrument had done him a personal injustice.  The fiddle screamed under the torture, like a thousand dying cats. 

The sorcerer paused for a moment, bow drooping by his side, staring in front of him intently.  John raised his hands and clapped, too slowly to be proper applause. 

The sorcerer started, turned, stared at John in shock.  “I- sorry, did I- did I wake you?” 

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” said John.  “A racket like that right outside my door at three in the morning couldn’t possibly have woken me.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at his feet.  “I couldn’t sleep.  My mind was racing.  The playing – it’s cathartic; fits my mood.” 

John sighed. 

“It’s alright,” he said.  “Only, next time, would you mind staying downstairs when you play?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock said, shamefaced, and took his instrument down with him. 

…

By the second month, John began to wonder why the sorcerer hadn’t taken him out to try and deduct people.  It wasn’t that he was jealous, he told himself.  He just wanted to watch the deductive process.  He brought the matter up the next time he ran into the sorcerer. 

“I stopped after the seventh royal called me a creepy know-all and ran away and got himself lost,” the sorcerer sniffed.  “It was too much trouble.” 

“Well, I promise not to run away…”

The sorcerer smiled, and John reflected that the uncannily knowing gaze seemed to have lost its sharp edges.  Or, rather, it had turned into something comforting – he still felt exposed every time the sorcerer looked at him, stripped bare down to his very soul, but upon seeing naked truths about John and his life, the sorcerer expressed only approval, and sometimes support. 

He was a good friend, John thought. 

“Put this on,” John’s friend said, tossing him a hat and a fake mustache.  John caught it instinctively. 

“Feels pretty real,” he commented.  “Make it yourself?” 

“Naturally.  Sorry to disappoint, by the way.  Doubtless you were anticipating some sort of spell or occult ritual that changed your appearance beyond recognition.” 

What John had been thinking was something else entirely, something he’d been thinking for weeks by now.  This time, he didn’t hesitate to voice it. 

“You aren’t a real sorcerer, are you?” 

The sorcerer opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it.  He paused. 

“No,” said Sherlock, finally.  “I’m not.” 

 …

John didn’t understand why Mrs. Hudson would often leave when he and Sherlock began discussing things.  John was perfectly happy to have the housekeeper nearby, and it always confused him when she’d say things like “time for my nightcap” when it was two hours before she went to sleep, or “I’ll leave you to it,” and wink.  It wasn’t like he was plotting anything particularly secret with Sherlock. 

…

“Fleas,” said Sherlock triumphantly. 

“Pardon?” 

Sherlock turned to John, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his fingertips together. 

“Imagine this,” said he.  “A strain of poison grows and festers in the bloodstream of, say, a pig.  Said pig is slaughtered and brought to the table of the Queen.  The royals eat the pig, and the poison enters their blood.  Now, how would that poison continue to spread?  How would the poisoned blood enter another being?” 

“I’m not I follow,” said John.  “Are you saying there’s someone who goes around drinking the blood of royal-” then it hit him.  “ _Oh_ ,” he said.  “ _Fleas_.” 

“There’s the genius of it,” said Sherlock, eyes gleaming.  “It jumps from infected to healthy with ease, and few can spot it before it’s too late.  Sometimes I almost imagine it to possess its own intelligence.” 

“Hypothetically, if it was intelligent, wouldn’t it be amiss to slaughter it without giving it a chance to defend itself?” 

“All that it could possibly have to say has already crossed my mind,” said Sherlock darkly.  “Its destruction remains inevitable.” 

“What will you do once you’ve eradicated the Plague?” 

Sherlock snorted.  “First things first,” he said.  “I haven’t eradicated it yet.”  He thought for a moment.  “I suppose I’d become a beekeeper,” he said at last.  “I’ve always wanted to.  I’d probably continue my scientific pursuits, but in a less focused way – more time for fun experiments instead of obsessing over this Plague.” 

…

The next time Sherlock accidentally set part of his castle on fire, John was in the library.  Sherlock came rushing in, covered in soot, wisps of smoke curling from his clothes, flames licking at his heels.  “Run,” he yelled, and John hesitantly took a few steps, still in shock, before Sherlock grabbed him around the waist and half-carried him to the open window.  He jumped through, landed in a large hydrangea, and rolled to his feet quickly enough to arrest John’s flight.  It was a rather romantic catch, even if Sherlock did stumble and fall on his back under John’s weight.  Particularly after John shifted uncomfortably atop him, and Sherlock looked at him with a faint smile, eyes glazed.      

Normally, this was the part of the narrative where the prince or princess told their savior “Thank you” with a hint of “I love you”.    

John said, “You complete idiot,” and punched him in the face. 

Fortunately, the fire didn’t spread too far, and the two soon returned to their quarters, Sherlock sulkily nursing his bruise. 

…

It wasn’t that John didn’t notice the way his companion’s eyes lit up whenever John entered the room, or that it never crossed his mind that his companion was incredibly attractive.  He just… didn’t care, he told himself.  It didn’t matter.  Besides, Mary was waiting for him back at the hospital.  They weren’t married, but he’d always thought it’d be a foregone conclusion – it was the most convenient situation he could think of. 

…

Weeks blurred into months, and soon winter arrived, bringing with it enough snow to blanket the world in white. 

 “Why ask for live-in companions?”  John asked again, after Sherlock finished infecting a rat with the newest Plague sample he’d isolated. 

This time, Sherlock answered seriously. 

“It was my brother’s dying wish that I… make friends.” 

“Really?” 

That was… oddly touching.  And sad. 

“I was skeptical at first,” Sherlock admitted.  “Where did all of Mycroft’s _friends_ get him?  They’d _pray_ for him, they said, they’d wish and hope for the best, and in the end, he died alone – I was the only person by his side during the last-” He broke off.  “In any case.  Mycroft was intellectually my equal, but spent his time cultivating friendships rather than learning anything important.  I never realized what could possibly have caused him to act in such an irrational way…” He shifted uncomfortably and looked away.  “Until now,” he finished awkwardly. 

John was trying to figure out how to best respond when the rat hissed and expired. 

…

“It wasn’t the meat.” 

John was used to Sherlock’s non-sequiturs by now, but still asked, to be polite. 

“What wasn’t?” 

“The Plague!  The instigator” – Sherlock paced back and forth agitatedly – “it wasn’t poisoned meat; it was Mr. Tuffles!” 

“ _Who?_ ” 

“Princess Diane’s pet cat.  It was the first casualty, remember, and she refused to be parted from it when it became sick.  Tried to nurse it back to health.  Then she came down with it and it spread from there.”  He finally sat down, pressing his fingers together.  “Bathing, staying away from pet cats – it’s surprisingly simple as a means of prevention, but getting the nobles to agree to it…”  He shook his head.  “I’ll need a more drastic method of proof.” 

“Like what?” 

“King James had been kind enough to inform me that nothing short of healing those in the quarantined sector will convince him.” 

John shivered.  The quarantined sector was filled with those who’d been diagnosed as hopeless, doomed to death by Plague.  Incurable, allegedly. 

“Isn’t there another way?” 

“Doubtful.” 

…

“Who’re you writing to?” 

Sherlock folded the letter over and slipped it into an envelope.  “Irene Adler.” 

“Who?” 

“She’s from my homeland,” he explained.  “Came here a few years ago, aboard another ship.  Wiggin told me – apparently she tried to squeeze him for my rates after hearing that I had a certain amount of influence.  Allegedly my country has managed to find a cure for what we considered terminal patients.  I’m” – he squeezed his eyes shut, as if the thought caused him physical pain – “I’m asking her for advice,” he finished. 

“Would she know enough to advise you?” 

“Irene is the only one of my classmates to have ever beaten me at science,” he admitted.  “When we were young, she’d consistently score higher than I did on our tests.  When we began exercising our skills in practical settings, she was significantly better at diagnosing every illness we came across.  If anyone in this country would know how to beat the Plague…”

“I see,” said John.  “And would she know how you were immune?” 

“It’s interesting,” Sherlock said gravely.  “Something I recently discovered – I was never immune; I simply never caught it.” 

…

Yule crept closer and closer, until on the evening before the holiday, Sherlock found John in the armory. 

“Go on back to your family, if you’d like,” he said, without preamble.  “Just… come back before the end of the year.  I’d rather see you one last time before you go.” 

“I’m not leaving.” 

“No, I insist.  See your family, tell them you’re alright.  Tell them- tell them I’ll stop asking for royal companions after this year.”  He swept out of the room before John could explain that he meant he wouldn’t be leaving after the end of the year. 

But either way, John thought, it wasn’t as if Sherlock would have believed him.  John would simply refuse to leave the castle after the thirty-first; that would be far more convincing than any words would. 

…

“As much as I can carry on my person, you said?” 

The Queen waved him toward the treasure chest.  John had asked Sherlock to lend him a large bag he could keep under his shirt.  When Sherlock found out the reason, he had done even better and built John a mechanical apparatus he could wear on his person, that would hold the bag steady and help him carry up to half his weight in gold.  He’d also provided John with a cane to lean on as he staggered out with half the treasury on his back. 

Under the Queen’s horrified eyes, John filled his pockets with half the contents of the chest. 

“Thanks, mum,” he said, and winked.  The Queen turned an interesting shade of puce, and John left as quickly as his legs and cane allowed. 

He was almost to the doors when a guard stopped him. 

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” John insisted. 

The guard lifted his visor. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” John said softly, and followed him downstairs. 

It was his brother Harry. 

…

There was a small corridor near the back of the castle.  The princes had discovered it when they were still boys, searching for secret passageways to slay dragons in.  It was dark, room along the wall for one small torch that flickered in the breeze as the boys, now grown, spoke. 

“Take this with you, John.” 

John looked down.  “A… dagger.” 

“It’s poisoned,” Harry explained earnestly.  “One small cut and the sorcerer’s reign of terror is ended.” 

“One thing,” said John.  “Why would I want to end the sorcerer’s reign?” 

Harry looked astonished.  “Because he’s evil!”  He gesticulated wildly.  “The collar, the _hat,_ the way he looks at me-  I can’t go back there in five years, John; I _can’t_!” 

John grabbed his brother’s flailing hands.  It wasn’t prudent to blurt out the fact that Sherlock wasn’t a real sorcerer, and if he told his brother the truth, he’d probably be sent to an asylum.  But he couldn’t let this slander of his friend slide. 

“No one’s forcing you to go back, Hal.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll be able to set up shop in his castle.  Then I wouldn’t need to leave, and none of you would ever need to return.” 

Harry scoffed.  “You’re mad.  You can’t live with him – he’s evil.” 

“What, he’s evil because he wears a black cloak and a funny hat and he _knows_ things?” 

“He keeps body parts lying around his house, John!  What good person keeps-”

“Lots of good people might keep body parts around!  _I_ keep severed body parts around sometimes!  I’m a physician!” 

“He forces us to live with him as payment for saving us from the Plague!” 

“Right, that sounds like a horrible idea, making sure the royals haven’t been infected again.” 

Harry shook his head.  “I can see there’s no changing your mind,” he said.  “Good luck.”  He clapped his brother on the shoulder and left. 

…

Mary was happy about the wealth, but insisted that it would be difficult to expand if John wasn’t around. 

“We’ve already turned the place into a clinic,” she said, “where people have to rely on what stock treatments we have left that you’ve already made.  We’ve lost most of our customers – they loved you, you know, but you’ve been gone for a year; you can’t expect them to hold on.” 

John stayed with the hospital for a week, helping his nurses tend to the sick, bringing a few new techniques he’d learned from Sherlock.  Slowly, the customers trickled back in, after countless reassurances that he’d be back more often the next year.  Mary was constant and competent as ever by his side.  He imagined a future by her side forever, and felt dissatisfied, for some reason – Mary’s eyes weren’t as discerning, nor her fingers as long and slender, nor…

John shook his head.  It was true that he still felt no passionate ardor for her, but neither did he actively loathe her; it was as good a match as he could hope for. 

Until Sarah returned. 

As soon as Sarah set down her bags, she rushed over to where Mary stood, waiting.   They passionately embraced, lips meeting. 

John looked away in embarrassment. 

“Oh,” said Sarah as they broke apart.  “Sorry, John – I didn’t see you.” 

“It’s alright,” he mumbled. 

“You don’t- er, you don’t _mind_ , do you?” 

“Of course he doesn’t mind,” said Mary.  “John isn’t interested in women.” 

“Hang on,” John protested.  “Are you implying- are you saying-”

The two women met his gaze solidly.  “Yes,” they said, simultaneously. 

John thought about it, and suddenly the events of the past year took on a different light. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” he said.  He practically jumped onto his horse, galloping toward the castle as if wild dogs were nipping at his heels. 

…

When John burst into the hall, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.  Mrs. Hudson, however, was seated at the foot of the stairs. 

She was crying. 

Wordlessly, she handed John a letter. 

 

_Dear John,_

_I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of the Seaworthy Plague, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear John, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this._

_There is a vial on my bedside drawer.  It contains the cure.  Once you have healed the formerly hopeless cases, your reputation as a physician will soar, and you’ll be able to convince the rest of the country to do as I advise, to prevent the Plague from ever taking root again._

_Do try not to mourn me._

_Yours,_  
_Sherlock_

 

The minutes before he managed to reach Sherlock’s bedchamber were the longest of John’s life.  Some dim part of his mind registered that he remembered clearly which chamber was Sherlock’s, but he ignored it, sprinting to where Sherlock lay still under a pile of blankets, skin pale; keen, intelligent eyes closed, never to look upon John again. 

The bedside drawer held nothing. 

“You’re too late,” said a voice.  John whirled around. 

By the door was a beautiful woman with the same complexion as Sherlock.  She held an empty vial. 

“I’ve already force-fed him my successful cure,” she said.  “He was a complete idiot – infected himself with the Plague and tried a hundred ways to cure it before finally caving and asking me for help.  We barely got it in time.  He didn’t think I’d finish, told me to leave it on his drawer.  He’ll come to in a couple of hours.  In the meantime, you’d better take him to the hospital.” 

“Would my hospital do?” 

“Oh.”  Irene’s eyes sparkled with interest.  “Are you the physician?  The only competent physician in all the five kingdoms?” 

“Yes,” he said curtly, and hoisted Sherlock onto his shoulders, carrying him downstairs to where his horse was waiting.  Together with Mrs. Hudson, they secured Sherlock and rode as quickly as they dared back to his hospital. 

...

A few days later, Sherlock’s eyes finally opened. 

“John.” 

“You complete _idiot_.”   

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock impatiently.  “You’ve snatched me from the jaws of death and now I’m fine.  It’s too much to hope that this would be the point in the narrative where you come to your senses and kiss me, so why don’t we get back to healing the rest of the invalids?”  His expression was firm, brooking no argument. 

So John did the only thing he could do. 

He kissed him. 

 

 

 

 

 _Epilogue_ : 

 

Once upon a time, there was a kindly old beekeeper who lived by a hospital.  The villages around him lived in secure tranquility. 

He was once a powerful sorcerer who had saved five kingdoms from the Plague twice over.  His life had once been filled with loneliness and turmoil. 

Now, it was filled with the one person who mattered. 

“Out of the way, Sherlock,” said John, directing two helpers, who were carrying a pallet with a man inside, so sick that he was _green_. 

“Ooh,” said Sherlock.  “Is that-”

John stopped, whirled around, and fixed Sherlock with a stern look.  “Sherlock,” he said.  “For the last time, you are not allowed to pester my patients until after they are already dead.  Understood?” 

Sherlock sighed.  “Yes, John,” he said.  “I understand.” 

“Good.”  John quickly pecked his husband on the lips.  “I’ll be going now.” 

“Duty calls?” 

John shot him an annoyed glance over his shoulder.  An amused Sherlock turned back to his beehives. 

 

_The End_


End file.
